Love on the Waterways

by Milly Adams

  Verity tied up, calling out, ‘Neat bit of driving. You should have been a chauffeur.’ She grinned, though the humour didn’t reach her eyes.

  He knew better than to try to cut through the façade and said, ‘I seem to remember chauffeuring for a spoilt little princess. You—’

  His words were brought to a halt as she leapt onto the counter and kissed his mouth. ‘Enough.’ She stood back, her grin fading. ‘Oh Lord, this trip has been a nightmare.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  She said, ‘All right, I know the only way to sort it out is to go.’

  ‘Quite.’

  She grabbed the bike from the roof, and a coil of rope from behind the chimney. There was a shout from the towpath and Polly was there, her legs on the ground on either side of her bike, rope coiled over her shoulder, too.

  They were gone, and Tom stayed, cursing his leg, but then realising he wouldn’t be here, on sick leave, if he hadn’t broken his shin. ‘So stop with the grumbling, for heaven’s sake,’ he told himself.

  Verity was right; it had indeed been a tricky journey, and the girls had not only taken turns on Bet’s pair, Hillview and Sky, but stayed close by every foot of the way, partly because of the stuttering engine, and partly because of Bet’s awful cough. It’s what a team should do, he thought, lighting up a cigarette, although they should also listen to advice. Bet should have let him tinker with the engine when it gave up the ghost yesterday afternoon, instead of working on it into the night. Now one or other of them had broken down.

  He kept an eye on the traffic coming up behind and pulling in, smoke rising straight up from the boats’ chimneys in the windless air. Nothing, of course, was coming through from the north. On the parapet of the bridge, children were jeering. He called to them, ‘Are boats banking up much on the other side?’

  ‘Too bloody right. I reckon it’s a boat broke in there, cos you boater scum can’t even bloody keep an engine working.’ The lad threw a stone. It plopped into the cut yards short of him. Tom understood Verity’s and Polly’s need to chase up the bank after them, and even Sylvia was tempted, she’d told him, when they moored up while Bet worked on the engine yesterday. Sylvia was a funny one; not so much sad, but it was as though she lived in a world that wasn’t quite everyone else’s. He wondered how she had got on, working Bet’s boats with her today.

  For a while Saul had stayed back with their convoy, but they couldn’t all be slow. Tom eased himself onto the bank, letting Dog sniff and potter; but maybe he should train Dog to advance with stealth, then grab one of the children by the scruff and bring them down to the boat, where they could give the little devil a cloth and set him, or her, to cleaning the boat. The thought made him laugh aloud, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when, from behind, he heard, ‘’Ow do.’

  He spun round. It was Steerer Norton. ‘How do,’ Tom replied. They stood together in silence as sparrows chattered in the towpath hedgerow, setting Dog barking and chasing towards the bridge. ‘Dog, get back here.’

  Dog stopped, turned, but didn’t rush back; instead she sniffed and scurried to left and right.

  ‘Hillview be stuck, be it? Engine needs a good and proper over’aul. Bet could call in at Mikey’s just up Buckby turn-off. ’Tis Saul’s mate, and it be quicker than the maintenance yard. Or p’raps it’s Bet and ’er chest? Ah well, best ’ave a look-see.’ Steerer Norton’s hands were in his pockets and his yellow kerchief at his neck fluttered in the breeze, his leather coat undone.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Polly and Verity have just gone. The damned engine has been making Bet’s life a misery, and it’s probably decided to break down at a chokepoint, which is anyone’s worst nightmare. Perhaps she’ll let me work on it under the bridge, but it’ll take time.’

  Steerer Norton tipped back his hat. ‘No need fer that, they’ll ’aul it out and you can sort it ’ere.’

  ‘Haul?’

  ‘Look yonder.’ Steerer Norton started to walk towards the bridge-hole, and now Tom saw Polly, Sylvia and Verity, their ropes tied around their shoulders and waists, hauling on tow-ropes. What the hell? Tom started forward, but what could he do? He was sick to death of being so useless, and hurled one of his walking sticks onto the counter. Dog bounded after it, bringing it back, tail wagging. Tom grabbed it and limped after Steerer Norton, but heard someone else approaching from behind. It was Steerer Mercy, who only seemed to be strolling, but was covering ground like a greyhound. ‘’Ow do,’ he said as he scorched past. The two steerers passed the girls, too, and disappeared into the bridge-hole, with their heads down.

  Tom met the girls, who were trying to dodge the stones and mud being thrown from the parapet as they hauled Sky, the butty, from the bridge-hole. The girls, heads also down, mud-spattered and with sweat beading their foreheads, didn’t acknowledge him, but just continued hauling. He’d wondered at the callouses on Verity’s shoulders, when he had wrapped her in the life-saving blanket, and now he understood.

  He slotted in behind Sylvia, feeling stones hit his shoulder, not to mention the woollen hat that Verity had insisted he wear instead of his beret. He threw one of his sticks aside, knowing Dog would collect it, and dragged her tow-rope over his shoulder, stomping along, using just one stick for balance. ‘One of the girls at last,’ he grunted.

  They laughed, but didn’t stop. Sylvia called over her shoulder, ‘Once we get them going, it’s not so bad, and we’ll be out of range of the children soon. They have pathetic throwing arms.’

  Verity panted, ‘They should try getting on the tow-rope – that would improve their throwing action.’

  Tom felt the rope-burns on his hand, and the rope digging into and rubbing his shoulder, even through his greatcoat. ‘The men are heading for the motor?’

  No one answered such an obvious question. So he ignored the ache in his leg and matched their steps. He heard a voice from the rear call, ‘Pull back on the rope. Pull back – stop the bugger, she’s clear of the bridge. The blokes are about to haul out Hillview, God bless ’em.’ It was Bet, coughing, as she hurried to catch them up.

  Tom heard Verity mutter, ‘Poor Bet, she must wonder why she ever returned to the training scheme.’

  Ahead of Tom the three girls were all leaning back, straining to halt the drift of the butty, but the weight of the load was taking them forward. Tom yelled, ‘Dig your heels in.’

  Sylvia shot back, ‘What the hell do you think we’re doing?’

  Verity laughed, ‘Language, Sylvia.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Polly and Sylvia shouted, but they too were laughing as they leaned right back like a tug-of-war team at a village fete. Tom knew that if he did the same with his plastered leg, he’d not stay upright, so he clung to the rope like some maiden aunt, doing his best, with his walking stick hooked over his arm, feeling a perfect fool. Sky stopped at last, just short of Marigold.

  He bent over, hands on his knees, panting. Bet ran back, still coughing, to help the men and Merle, who were still in the bridge-hole with the motor, Hillview. The girls coiled all the ropes, as the children started throwing more stones. Straightening, he saw Polly dodge forward, grab the walking stick that Dog had returned, and run towards the bridge, throwing it up and over the parapet, calling to Dog, ‘Fetch.’ The children screamed and disappeared from the parapet as Dog tore up the slope, barking. Tom heard the shout, ‘Quick, the bloody dog’ll eat us.’

  Polly called Dog back. She came, with Tom’s walking stick in her mouth, and Tom could have sworn she was laughing. Polly certainly was.

  ‘Good throwing action,’ he shouted.

  ‘My brother taught me.’

  He knew his place, so while the others were sorting out the mooring, he made tea, carting the mugs to the towpath. As the girls drank it down, Hillview was hauled out by Merle, Bet and the two steerers. Tom said, ‘What I can do is get that damned engine fixed enough to get it to Mikey. You girls must convince Bet, or God knows what’s to be done.’

  Sylvia nodded and murmured, ‘O
f course He’ll know.’

  Tom was confused and said, ‘The trouble is, I’m not sure she will, so Verity …’ But he saw that Verity was already running towards Bet and talking earnestly, even wagging her finger. Finally they approached Tom together and stopped by the Marigold. Bet sighed and smiled at Tom. ‘I refused your offer yesterday, but I’d kiss your feet if you would have a go at the damned thing. Just do enough to get it to Mikey’s yard, if you would.’

  ‘If you leave my feet alone, I’ll sort your engine,’ Tom said. ‘You’ve some tools, I expect.’

  He followed Bet along the towpath, calling back to Verity, ‘I bet you’re glad you don’t have to haul like that every day – or every week, come to that.’

  Verity shouted, ‘Just every two weeks.’

  Again he thought he’d misheard, and hurried on with Bet.

  Once they were through Stoke Bruerne, Polly lifted the bicycle onto the roof, took up Horizon’s tiller, and Verity re-joined Tom on Marigold while Sylvia continued on Hillview. Within the flick of an eye it seemed they were going through the long Blisworth Tunnel, following Bet, whose engine, Tom had declared, was tweaked enough to reach Mikey’s. Verity pointed above them to the arched bricks, worn where the boaters would lie on the cabin roofs and walk their boats through, while the runabout took the horse over the top. Tom murmured, ‘I never realised how hard any of it was. And I mean any of it.’

  Verity said, ‘If you get an echo, you can make a wish.’

  He called, ‘I love this woman.’ As his words echoed, he said, ‘I’m not telling you my wish, though you can guess, perhaps.’

  She replied, ‘Perhaps.’ They headed on, in the darkness, her hand in his, the only things visible the glowing ends of their cigarettes.

  He murmured, ‘So, no more locks now until Birmingham.’

  Her laughter echoed. ‘If only that were true. No, this is when I sort out lunch and leave it to cook in the range. And there are more locks as we approach Norton Junction. We’re still climbing after all.’

  She prepared bacon-and-vegetable stew, but dreamed instead of halibut, or steak. Yes, that would be good, but she was also thinking of Tom’s wish and hoping it was for marriage.

  On they travelled, out into the daylight, and their journey was easier now, but then they climbed the Norton locks, and it was magical that such cold and harsh weather had given way to this ‘soft’ day, as Tom called it.

  At the last lock Sylvia left Bet’s Hillview and joined Polly on Horizon, and Verity felt immediately better because the team was together again. As she transferred to Marigold to join Tom, she absorbed the thought and said, ‘Well, I never.’

  Tom looked at her. ‘Well, “you never” what?’

  ‘I must have been missing Sylvia. Until now we’ve always felt relieved at her absence.’

  Tom slipped his arm around her. ‘She mucked in well, when Sandy fell in. Perhaps she felt part of it and liked that? Be interesting to see if she keeps in the team, as it were. She’s a private one, for whatever reason. We have had one or two blokes like that. Sometimes they meld, sometimes they don’t. I suppose you just have to hope for the best and, as long as they do their jobs, that’s good enough.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I want Sylvia really to be one of us.’

  ‘Whether she wants to be or not?’ He was laughing softly.

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll write to you and let you know, shall I? You’ll have nothing better to do than think of the cut, will you?’ She was laughing, too, but she felt that at any minute she’d grip Tom to her and beg him not to leave.

  Within minutes, it seemed, Bet was hooting as she turned right for Buckby for a proper engine overhaul, while Tom hooted the electronic horn in reply, knowing better than to use the hunting horn, which seemed reserved for special occasions. Marigold would carry the message of Bet’s delay to the office at Tyseley Wharf, Birmingham. Tom asked, as they carried on through the darkness of the Braunston Tunnel, ‘So, what’s the story about the hooter?’

  Verity explained about Bet’s father, who had hunted and owned a couple of hunting horns. Bet had brought them onto the canal and left one with Marigold, keeping the other.

  ‘She must be fond of him,’ he said.

  Verity waited for a moment as the light at the end of the tunnel grew. ‘I’m not sure. He killed her mother, some sort of breakdown, and is still in one of those hospitals.’

  Tom said nothing, but gripped her hand. ‘Poor woman. Poor man. Poor Bet.’

  They wheeled their way downhill through the locks after they exited the tunnel, and the stretch past Leamington brought them to late afternoon. They kept going for a while, but there was no way either Polly or Verity was ready to climb Hatton locks in the half-light, so they moored up along the bank, which they knew had enough depth. There was no pub, so after a meal they set up the brick fireplace on the bank and got the boiler going. It wasn’t too dark, so even if an ARP warden was powering along on his bicycle, he’d hardly whistle and shout, ‘Lights.’

  They washed some of their dirty clothes, taking it in turns to stir the boiler, warming themselves beside it. Tom joined the three of them. ‘You look like a coven of witches,’ he laughed.

  Sylvia stared at him. ‘There are no such things as witches, and they shouldn’t be mentioned – the very words are an offence.’ She stormed off, back to the butty. ‘I’m going to bed, so come in quietly.’ She slammed the cabin doors behind her.

  Tom looked after her, and then at the girls. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  Verity sighed in disappointment. ‘It’s not your fault. Sometimes we just touch a nerve, and who knows why.’ She and Polly rinsed and wrung out the clothes, then strung them on a line behind the cabin to drip. They’d dry the next day. They changed into pyjamas in Marigold’s cabin, wrapped themselves in blankets and tiptoed across to the butty, leaving Tom and Dog to the seclusion of the motor cabin. Verity felt like throwing herself in the cut again, so that she could be held all night by Tom.

  Polly nudged her. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she whispered as they paused outside the butty-cabin doors.

  ‘How did you know?’ whispered Verity.

  Polly grinned as the sky danced with searchlights. ‘It’s what I’d want.’

  They tiptoed into the butty cabin in their boots, carrying socks, because Verity wasn’t having Polly’s cold feet on her – a feeling reciprocated by Polly. The light from the range fire, banked up with coal and ash, lit a path for them. They crept along and onto the cross-bed, pulling up the blanket. Sylvia said quietly, ‘Sleep well, both of you.’

  Verity smiled. ‘Sleep well, Sylvia.’

  It was an unexpected rapprochement. Polly whispered, ‘I hope Saul’s held up at Tyseley Wharf and I can have a bit of time with him. He’s seemed more perky, don’t you think, since Tom’s been here? Perhaps he feels as though he’s got a new friend.’

  Verity whispered back, ‘I’ve been too busy looking into my own bloke’s eyes to bother with yours.’ They laughed quietly, but Verity stared at the ceiling, wishing she could tell Polly that in the pub that first night Tom and Steerer Mercy had talked to Saul about possible ways of enlisting, and that could be the reason he seemed happier. She turned on her side, wishing she didn’t know, because she felt as though she was lying to her friend. Well, she almost was, but as Saul had said to Tom, why upset Polly unnecessarily? And he was right. But it still took her several hours to get to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Sunday 2 April – the Marigold’s arrival at Tyseley Wharf

  The Hatton locks, in spite of being much closer to Birmingham, had become Polly’s least-favourite flight, but it was mainly because she was always exhausted after the long slog. It was also something to do with the rushes, which looked so dark and sinister. But it was Verity’s turn to lock-wheel and she thanked her lucky stars that she was just steering.

  Polly changed with Verity to handle the Knowle flight of locks, the last before Birmingham, and as
she cycled past Marigold she envied Verity and Tom their time together, but knew it was short. Dodging a puddle, she wondered about Saul again, hoping he’d forgotten about enlisting; but would the longing start again, once his new friend Tom left for war?

  She cycled past allotments, waving at those who were hoeing and planting. Was her dad doing so yet? Were her mum and Joe helping? She remembered how she and Will would be drafted in to weed, and to pick the sprouts. She liked the picking, but not the weeding, because the soil seemed to clutch at the roots. Was she clutching at Saul? She must not, for the boaters needed their freedom. She cycled on.

  A flyboat passed on its way to London. She waved, and the young men called ‘’Ow do.’ She looked behind as Tom steered away from the centre, giving them space. She could see Verity cleaning the outside of the cabin. Behind, on the butty, Sylvia was doing the same. She smiled to herself and cycled off again; there were locks to open and close, miles to travel, cargoes to deliver, with the team.

  She whizzed beneath a bridge. Ahead an elderly couple were walking their equally elderly Labrador. She slowed. ‘Good morning.’ It seemed rude to use her bell. She swerved onto the grass verge, and the man called in his Birmingham accent, which underlay the boaters’ dialect, ‘’Ow do.’

  She lock-wheeled until they were past Knowle. Next stop, Brum, as the boaters called it. The bridges were more frequent and warehouses lined the cut, shutting out the spring sun. Barrage balloons tugged at their moorings. Factories belched smoke from their soot-stained chimneys. Soon, very soon, at the end of the week, it would be Easter. It meant little to Polly, because they had a cargo to deliver.

  The traffic became more congested as they had to wait for oncoming pairs to come through bridge-holes. She kept on cycling under the overhanging trees rather than return to the boats, reluctant to invade Verity and Tom’s privacy, or that of Sylvia, who seemed preoccupied and distant once more.

  She skirted a wide part of the cut, with some dead leaves still on the surface, even after the long winter. They were half an hour away from Tyseley now, and from the public baths and a bed at Mrs Green’s boarding house. She flashed a look behind her. Would Tom come to the baths? She heard Marigold’s hooter signalling that they would pull in under the next bridge for her. Soon they’d be amongst the noise of the wharf, the warehouses and the cranes, breathing in the smell of soot and industry.